Tag: fiction

182 – Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty two.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp182.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Garaaga’s Children.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his roommate, Bunny, receive an unexpected letter regarding an avid reader.

 

Flash Pulp 182 – Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

CoffinCoffin was staring out onto the apartment’s balcony from behind the sliding-door’s glass.

In the kitchen, Bunny was operating a blender and shouting explanations between bouts of ice-breaking.

“Yeah, I know they’re kinda lady-like, but sometimes I get feelin’ a little festive. Besides, how else am I going to get my vitamin C?”

It had been her idea to stay in for the evening.

“Flintstones vitamins,” he responded, only to have his words blotted out by renewed thrashing.

As the racket paused, it uncovered Bunny’s voice, mid-tune.

“…and getting caught in the rain.”

Then there was a knock at the door.

Will was mildly surprised to discover the mute standing in his hall. With an extended arm, he offered entrance to the newcomer, but the man shook his head in friendly refusal, and, instead, removed an envelope from his pocket and set it in Coffin’s palm. Nodding, the messenger then departed.

As the codger had lost his tongue early in life, the shaman was used to this being the extent of their conversation, but he couldn’t help but feel that the old bull had seemed shaken.

There were two slips of paper within the delivery, a single handwritten page, and a photocopy of scraps torn from the margins of what appeared to be fantasy novels. Beside a paragraph regarding the claiming of something called the Sword of Dawnswood was a woman’s name, Shirley Hartley, and a string of numbers. Along a bit of text describing an elven forest was another pairing – Cynthia Mayfield and a different set of digits – but also an apology. It read simply, “I’m so sorry.”

Scanning the accompanying notes, Coffin entered the kitchen.

“Forget the cocktails, we’re going out,” he said, but Bunny was already packing down a brimming thermos.

* * *

As they awaited their bus, Will muttered the letter into his roommate’s ear.

It read:

William

I have a matter which I believe requires your attention.

A kid I once knew was raiding his local used-bookstore for fiction, and came across the scrawl beside the bit about the sword. He’s a bit of a morbid little bugger, and he recognized the name from the news. He spent an afternoon tossing the shop, and he came up with the other. I have no idea if there are more – they may have been bought or missed.

Rather than find himself involved, he turned his discoveries over to me.

Those second-hand places have no real transaction records, but I got lucky – in the top right corner of the first page of both novels, the scribbler in question had signed his name: Neil Murray.

The missing both disappeared downtown, and, as you probably suspect, the numbers are GPS coordinates. As I write this, there are already uniformed men with tents and tiny brushes setting up in the woods at the edge of town.

I did some poking around just after I called in the blues. Neil is a security guard, and very fastidious. I talked to his boss briefly, and the harshest language he’s ever heard from his employee is the occasional “gosh.” All he does is sit around a waste treatment plant, watching cameras, and periodically walking the fence. He reads constantly. I’ve been inside his place, and there are books stacked up on every available surface.

None of them held any further scrawls though.

I even got my hands on a little of the patrol footage from the plant, just so I’d know Murray to see him. I had to go back and ask for some older stuff to be sure, but you can definitely make it out on the tape: he was changing. Becoming sort of – bulbous. His skin was stretching and rounding. By his last shift he was like a walking sausage with arms, right down to the translucent skin.

What I’m banking on them not finding till tomorrow is his parent’s house. When Mr and Mrs. Murray died in a car accident, he closed it up as sort of a shrine. I only know about it because of my, uh, direct investigation methodology, and hopefully it’ll take a bit for the boys to properly make their way through the paperwork.

I realize it’s a long run down the bus-line, but you need to look into 279 View’s garage.

Smith

It was deeper than Will was used to seeing the former lawman incriminate himself on paper – unless he was at hand to see the sheet burned – and by the time they were done reviewing the dispatch, Coffin was cursing every impeding stop before his own.

After an hour of swaying with regular halts, and nearing the end of the public-transport’s route, the pair found themselves deposited in a sparsely lit, but well treed, neighbourhood. It was a ten minute walk to the driveway they sought.

The pavement was cracked, but the yard was trim, and the light-blue house looked as if it might still have been lived in. There was an external side-door to the garage, and Will was pleased to find it unlocked.

A moment’s careful fumbling brought his fingers against a plastic faceplate, and he flipped on the overhead fluorescent lights. Bunny was close behind as he stepped into the open space.

In the corner furthest from the entrance, above the wooden rafters, was a massive white cocoon. Although many tendrils detached from the main body to keep the thing in place amongst the roof’s beams, the bulk of the nylon-looking weave was in a ten foot cylinder, pressed across the plywood walls at the web’s center.

“Holy ####, it’s Mothra,” said Bunny.

“Sort of,” replied Coffin, “he’s undergoing a metamorphoses. He’s becoming a moth-man.”

“Like with Richard Gere?”

“No.”

The both took a tentative step towards the silken structure, and Will found himself surveying the collected yard tools that lined the nearest wall.

He cleared his throat.

“It takes a long time for this sort of thing to happen. Months of collecting the proper nutrients – mostly pilfered from cracked braincases. I’ve known some imps who specialize in this sort of bargain, offering to turn them into a unique butterfly and all that. You need to slip off the map of reality pretty far to start seeing those hooligans though. I’m surprised he wasn’t caught talking to himself.”

“If anyone had given a ####, they’d-a noticed this ####er turning into a ###damn man-erpillar,” replied Bunny. “I’ve seen these guys lurking in the corners of laundry mats and cheap coffee shops. Poor #######s are usually too awkward to even hold their end of the conversation if you do them the favour of making small talk. I’ve always figured it was probably their upbringing.”

“Not a bad guess – might also explain why he only caved after his Ma and Pa died. At least they raised him well enough that he had some guilt about what he was doing. He’s got another week in that thing, but he likely thought his confessions would go unnoticed until well after he was beating his wings against the night sky.”

“So,” said Bunny, after a long sip from the lip of her silver canister, “what do we do? Call in a hundred-foot-tall bat?”

“Nah,” said Coffin, digging out a jerrycan. “We give him what most moths are looking for. I saw a gas station back on the main drag, let’s hustle before Smiths’ friends arrive.”

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod ofhttp://incompetech.com/

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

181 – Which: a Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty one.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Which: a Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp181.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Garaaga’s Children.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Mother Gran relates a warning, via a parable of her youth.

 

Flash Pulp 181 – Which: a Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Mother GranWhen Mother Gran had discovered Briana, one of the youngest of her children’s children’s children, the girl had been busy creating a makeshift ladder so she might throw her legs over one of the farm’s plow horses. Her Pa had warned her away from the barn on several occasions, but, as she was of Gran’s stock, she had no instinct for heeding danger – besides, she argued, she’d ridden the nags many times before, with little harm.

Rather than take the lass over her knobby knee and lay plain the lesson, the ancient woman sat the youngling upon a hay bale, and told this tale:

“One grey May morning, many decades ago, just as the hens had begun to cluck, and the cows to lament their burden, two brothers, and their little sister, moved across the grain fields, and through the cart-paths, with mischief on their minds and bawdy songs on their lips.

“Their hands were heavy with warm plunder – speckled eggs plucked from beneath the nesting chickens of their father’s coop – and they chose their route with care, so as to preserve their bounty till it had reached its intended destination. It was only once they had come to their place of turning, an overgrown lane differentiated from a dozen others along the line by a tear-drop-shaped boulder, the majority of whose surface was etched with white runes, that they broke off their tune.

““‘Tis the road of the witch,” said the eldest.

““A long and shady patch, indeed,” replied the middle brother.

““Naught is accomplished with still feet and open mouths,” noted the youngest sister.

“Paying no heed to the warding stone, they tiptoed into the shadows of the spruce stands that oversaw their passage.

“Beyond the constant drone of insects, all was hushed.

“A quarter-mile’s further creep brought them to the splintered shanty that was their objective.

“They let fly their shelled payloads, painting the listing-shed’s single window in yoke.

““Witch!” cried the eldest.

““Witch!” shouted the middle brother.

““Witch!” repeated the youngest sister.

“With a howl from the interior, the chase began.

“The three bodies knew that the hound, a short-cropped tawny brute with slobbering jowls and paws the size of horse’s hooves, was on a leash of sorts – if they might outrun it to the marked stone at the hovel’s entrance, the beast would bark and bray, but not pass onto the road beyond.

“The eldest brother had discovered the fact one night while lurking beneath the moon, with a lad of his acquaintance, the blacksmith’s boy from town. In an effort to impress the exotic hooligan, he’d crept upon the house, whose reputation as a witch’s burrow was a well whispered tale, and loudly declared that the woods were aflame. As a light had flickered to life behind the poorly glazed pane, the pair of boys had gone laughing down the trail – only to have their merriment cut short by the hammering gallop of the behemoth. The thing ought to have had their throats, as they’d both lost their feet at the change of turf onto the larger path, but it had stopped up short. Pleased at their escape, they’d been uninterested in examining the nature of the restraint, but it was then, after the first authentic terror of his young life, that the eldest had begun his petty vendetta. After a half-dozen further successful outings, he’d enlisted his siblings.

“It was the inaugural excursion for the youngest, and even as the mongrel bore down on her, she found herself giggling at her nervous state. The thing hung perennially at her heels, its breath warming the exposed calves below the hem of her cotton dress. Fear was in her heart, and savagery at her back, and yet she found herself laughing throatily, sure she would die.

“Just as it seemed there could be no further reprieve, the trees gave way, and she tumbled into the muck, upended in the same fashion as her brother’s initial venture. Close behind, with it’s jaws snapping, the dog halted. It snorted once at the heaving-lunged children, then turned its hind-legs to the runners and trotted into the leafy shadows.

““Close!” said the eldest.

““A near thing,” replied the middle brother.

““No more than a Sunday stroll” chided the youngest sister.

“T’was the second last time they tried such a thing.

“At their return home, they discovered their father sitting upon the kitchen stool where he so often spent his evenings drawing at his pipe. He’d heard, while transacting an exchange of sheep, that a number of his offspring were making their way down the lane with faces full of ill intent, and he was not pleased. He had no trouble extracting full truths from the delinquents, and it was a sound thrashing in store for each.

“Their final attempt was made the spring following, not long after the thaw, when the winds are still wild and the air full of damp chill – when freedom from the snows makes a stripling restless to stop telling the same schoolhouse tales, and start creating some new ones.

“The pain of their lesson having long healed, and the memories of the earlier, more successful endeavors, having grown large with verbal repetition, the trio chose to slip out on the first warm eve. Once their exhausted custodians were safely snoring, and well after they might encounter any respectable fellow travelers, they took to the night, collecting up from beneath the ferns the selection of eggs they’d set aside that morning. They’d been hopeful that a day in the sun would do much for the condition of their aroma.

“Elation at their nocturnal liberty set their feet flying over the still brown grasses, and seemed mere instants before they were once again in a strong-throw’s range of the leaning cabin.

““A breakfast for you, witch!” cried the eldest.

““A lunch for you, witch!” shouted the middle brother.

““A dinner as well, witch!” squawked the youngest sister.

“Again came the bellow, and again the chase. They’d nearly made half the distance when they encountered calamity – an old woman upon the path, and, behind her, a hundred cavorting dead, all in various states of decomposition.

“As the siblings halted, the hag spoke.

“”You look not like the opposition I expected, but, whatever the case, the cure is the same.”

“With that, she extracted a dagger from within her billowing sleeves, and bared its blade.

“Sure they’d encountered the witch of the hut upon some late errand, the youths thought their fate’s certain – and, with the column of animated corpses at her heels, it was as if every tale they’d heard of her occult powers must be true.

“Heard, but unseen by the youngest, the hound lept then, hurdling the vandals – but it was a dusky moose that stood under the light of the moon when the girl uncovered her eyes. Without pause, the beast ran its racks into the column of shuddering cadavers.

“It was clear then, to the aghast onlookers, that they had become caught betwixt magics beyond their comprehension.

“She with the dagger also joined the fray, and for a moment the three siblings were held fast. As the tide of the battle appeared to turn, however, a second old woman was suddenly amongst the combatants, even as the spectral antlers vanished. The newcomer’s hair was tawny, and her face haggard – fitting perfectly the murmured accounts of the sorceress.

“”Run!” she shouted to the children from beneath the press of rotting flesh.

““Run!” cried the eldest.

““Run!” shouted the middle brother.

““Run!” repeated the youngest sister.

“The speed, and panic, of their return home, was such that they had no notice of the scratches each accumulated from unregarded obstructing branches. It was these telltales that led to a further thrashing from their father – but it was no longer necessary, their lesson had already been kenned.”

Gran’s audience nodded her head, seeming to take the meaning of the tale.

After a span of consideration, she raised a question.

“I take your meaning, certainly, but what of the witches?”

“So far as I know, the defense of the vandals was the last story to be told of the woman and her cottage,” replied Gran. “No night thereafter was the hound heard, nor seen to roam.”

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

SE1 – Midnight Tales with Cassandra, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, special episode one.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Midnight Tales with Cassandra, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE1.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Garaaga’s Children.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, in lieu of our usual fiction, we present an urban legend of questionable veracity, as pulled from the pages of the Flash Pulp wiki.

 

Flash Pulp SE1 – Midnight Tales with Cassandra, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

For the full text visit the Flash Pulp wiki.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

180 – Mulligan Smith in Nurture, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith in Nurture, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp180.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Words with Walter.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Mulligan Smith and his short-tempered friend, Billy Winnipeg, find themselves caught up in a high-velocity chase.

 

Flash Pulp 180 – Mulligan Smith in Nurture, Part 3 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan Smith and Billy Winnipeg were on the highway, and traveling well over governmentally recommended speeds.

The Tercel was juddering under the strain, but, given the furious police sirens that were chasing him, the PI had little interest in slowing.

He’d never expected the job to be a simple one – no case was, when children were involved – but the real trouble had begun when he’d handed Winnipeg his cellphone.

The client was a fellow he’d worked with on a few other matters, although he was never entirely clear what the leather-jacketed customer’s interests were. He seemed to be some sort of life guru, although, in truth, Mulligan wasn’t quite sure – he was happy to take his cash, however, and, as Smith’s father had vouched for the swami’s integrity, he wasn’t losing any sleep over where it came from.

Unusual, though, was the amount of communication the man had required on this outing. He’d kept up a steady stream of prodding, via texts, and, as the private investigator was busy handling the wheel, he’d delegated the responsibility of replying to his occasional accomplice, Billy.

During their original rushed conversation, the client had demanded Mulligan approach the situation with extreme caution, so he’d opted to bring along his easily enraged Canadian friend. Beyond the warning, he’d also been provided a name, apparently straight from a business card the abductor had left in his possession. Poking around the alleged-snatcher’s credit information had initially brought few leads, but, just after lunch, a rental car appeared on the man’s Visa, and Smith was quick to hit the road after coaxing details out of a counter-jockey over at the Budget office.

Distance was the enemy then, so he’d made his next call while nosing his baby-blue car towards an on-ramp.

After the third try, the former client at the far end of the line had answered.

“Mulligan,” said the cracking male voice.

“Yep. Hey, listen, I need a favour.”

“I didn’t think you were calling to take me out for dinner.”

“Let’s not discuss your eating habits on the phone, you never know who might be listening.”

“Screw you, that Jenkem thing was years ago and I didn’t – ”

“Uh huh,” replied Smith, “listen, poo-huffer, I’m not all judgemental like your boss, so there’s no reason to explain to me. I’m just asking you to punch a rental license plate through your bleep-bloop-OnStar-bullpucky, and come up with a location for me – then I need you to do it again every half hour till I find the guy I’m looking for.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“Dorian, you know I don’t discuss details – unless its an emergency.” Mulligan had spun a little casual menace into his voice. “If you think about it, I’m pretty sure you prefer it that way – and, yeah, I assure you, this is an emergency.”

It was as he was jotting down the initial set of GPS coordinates that Smith had received the first request for information from the man paying him. That’s when he’d decided to promote Winnipeg to public relations.

For a time, things had proceeded smoothly. Accumulating only one speeding ticket, and catching a break when the hunted had apparently stopped for gas, a half-day’s worth of bent speed limits brought the pursuers directly behind the silver Buick in question.

Pulling alongside, Mulligan had confirmed the man in the driver seat as his suspect by his cheap suit and poor haircut, but he’d been surprised to also see a woman sitting in the rear. At first he’d thought she was terrified, as her eyes seemed unnaturally open, but a few seconds of observing her glazed look had left him wondering if she was aware of anything beyond the blanketed bundle she was absentmindedly holding to her chest.

The suit had broken off the conversation he appeared to be having with his companion – which she seemed in no condition to respond to – and gave the flanking Tercel a brief inspection.

Ignoring Winnipeg’s motions to pull over, the rented car had picked up speed.

“Give me the phone,” Mulligan had said.

“It’s out of juice,” was his friend’s sheepish reply.

“I just heard it ding like three seconds ago!”

“Yeah, but that was the last of it. Don’t you have a car charger?”

They’d been cresting a hill, and the long straightaway before them had given a perfect vantage point to the speed-trap ahead.

“No, but it doesn’t matter,” Mulligan had said, “we’ll have some company once he passes that cop, and we can straighten the whole thing out while the tot-toter is getting a ticket handed to him.”

The lead car had blown right by the black-and-white, which made no response.

“Stop napping and get back on the job!” Billy had shouted, as if he might rouse the slumberer.

Time and distance had grown short, and Smith had considered his client’s words regarding extra protection. Rummaging through the glove compartment, he’d retrieved a pistol.

“Uh,” Winnipeg had begun, while Mulligan cranked at his window. “I don’t think -”

Then the PI had fired five times, towards the clouds.

The inert siren had suddenly become quite active.

The cat-and-cat-and-mouse game continued for two more miles of open blacktop, then, without explanation, the rental jerked sideways, rolled onto its roof, and came to a stop not five feet from the line of trees that neighboured the road.

Leaving a thick black peel behind him, Mulligan made a U-turn, which was quickly imitated by the trailing patrol-car.

Grinding his already over-taxed vehicle to a halt, Smith lept from the car and down the gravel siding. Standing beside the nearest still-spinning rear-tire were Mulligan’s suspect, and a haggard woman who was taking turns attempting to wipe away her tears, and hold closed her ratty blue blouse.

To Mulligan’s practiced eye, she had the look of a working girl who’d aged badly while on her corner.

“Where’s the kid?” asked the PI.

“That son of a #####, magician” replied the hustler, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. “I dont’ know how he did it, but he pulled me right off the highway. I don’t have the beast. He took it – carried it into the woods, by its neck.”

The responding officer approached the scene, weapon drawn, but the conversation he was overhearing was too interesting to break up immediately.

“You kidnap a baby,” said Winnipeg, “you hire a prostitute to tend it, then you try and tell me David Copperfield was waiting here to make it disappear? Have fun in prison pal, I’m sure your cellmates will find your spleen delicious.”

“It’s not like that, it’s – it’s not even a real child. The magician took it and, I’m sure, if you’ll just-”

Billy’s rebuttal to his solar-plexus ended the conversation.

“Hey now,” said the policeman, handcuffing the kidnapper while still keeping his weapon drawn. “This the same tyke I’ve been hearing about all morning? The bunch of you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Leading his captive to the rear-bench of his patrol car, the uniform began to rattle off a status update into his radio.

A black Chevy Lumina pulled to a stop just head of the parked Tercel, and a woman Mulligan didn’t recognize – wearing a Van Halen t-shirt, and a pair of jeans with a mustard stain on the left knee – stepped out of the passenger-side door, and stumbled down the embankment.

She was carrying a pamphlet of some sort, and, to Smith, it seemed as if she were attempting to avoid eye contact with anyone. When she walked passed him, he took a guess as to why – she stank of rum

The intruder beelined to the weeping hooker who was wiping a thick string of snot from her nose.

“C’mon,” the tipsy newcomer said, “don’t worry so much about that toddler, I’m sure he’s in a better place.”

Bunny was little interested in mentioning that she was on hand with Coffin, when, not sixty-seconds previous, he’d been holding the little brute’s mouth open with a rock, and wielding a pair of pliers in his free hand. Internally, she reminded herself not to look over at her ride’s trunk.

Meanwhile, Smith was chiding himself for not having considered that that might be why the woman had continued crying – he’d assumed she was complicit, and upset because of her capture.

“Can you tell me what happened?” asked Mulligan.

“He paid me fifty bucks…” started the mewling woman, ”I don’t really remember much. There was a baby, I know there was a baby – but, but it’s teeth…”

She broke down again.

“There’s a place for people who’ve, you know, uh, seen what you’ve seen,” said Bunny, reaching out to adjust the whimpering woman’s shirt, and tossing a sharp squint at the prying private detective. “It’s been around forever – it was started by some old dead bugger who saw a need to keep – I mean for, uh, special cases. Tough, long term, cases. I know its called the Sisters of Silence, but its not like a nunnery or anything – I asked and its OK if you still #### and drink and whatever. Work hard enough, and get clean, and, uh, maybe, you know, one day you might even meet that little ba – er, angel, again.”

Having concluded her proselytizing, and leaving behind her leaflet, the drunk hobbled back across the road and disappeared behind the tinted windows of the dark sedan.

After several hours of examination and explanation, and despite the lack of success in the official search for the infant, Smith found he had to smile: charging his phone revealed a missed, cryptic message from his client, indicating the child was somehow recovered and safe – and there was also the fact that Mulligan considered every moment of the incident to be billable.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

179 – Coffin: Nurture, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-nine.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: Nurture, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp179.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Words with Walter.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his roommate, Bunny, find themselves involved in an unusual deathwatch.

 

Flash Pulp 179 – Coffin: Nurture, Part 2 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

CoffinThe man which Will had mentally nicknamed “The Hustler” had wasted an hour of his time that afternoon, and Coffin’s patience was running short.

“Look, you’ve hassled me every day for the last week. I’ve got your card, but you’ve got my answer. I am not now, nor will I likely ever be, interested in letting you make bank on some poor bastard who’s stuck waiting around for the afterlife, I’d no more put you in touch with anything serious than I’d entrust you with atomic weaponry, or, for that matter, my non-existent sister.”

Bunny, who felt odd about drinking around aggravating strangers, leaned forward on the bench that acted as Coffin’s ad hoc office, and tossed a Mr Big wrapper into the Eats’N’Treats’ trash barrel.

She indelicately licked the last of the chocolate from her teeth, then addressed the tie-wearing interloper.

“Listen, I don’t mean to stick my #### in your eye, but you ain’t been welcome since the first time I laid my beady ####ing peepers on your skeevy ###, back when you were still hanging out with that hypno-chatty cannibal ##### – why don’t you go searchin’ under another mushroom for yer ####in’ cookie makin’ elves?”

Before the rejoined could pull on a smirk and attempt to parlay his lemons into some sort of unwanted lemon-aid, a red Grand Cherokee bounced roughly over the curb. It’s tires held a brief shouting match with the pavement, then the vehicle came to a full stop, directly in front of the trio.

The nearest window slid down.

“I’m late, I’m sorry!” said the reckless driver, a man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, “Mom didn’t call me till just now, but he’s been dead since this morning!”

“Who died?” asked Bunny.

“His twin,” replied Will, standing.

As they piled in and pulled onto the roadway, Coffin caught sight of The Hustler jotting down the SUV’s license plate numbers.

He knew he had no time to do anything about it.

* * *

The house that was their destination stood along a shady lane on the west side of the city.

Rory MacGillivray’s body – boxed and besuited – was set up on display in the dapper front-parlour.

“It’s my mom’s place,” explained Alister, the surviving brother.

The man was having difficulty moving his gaze away from the dead face that was his mirror image, but a shove from Will coaxed him to comforting his keening mother.

“So,” Bunny said, once the client was out of earshot. “What’re we doing?”

“Well,” replied Coffin, digging the plastic container he’d demanded they stop to purchase out of its plastic bag. “Rory over there – and Alister too, actually – have death insurance. A few years ago I was paid handsomely to deal with their superstitions. Frankly, I have my doubts, but they’ve got a family tradition – from when they were still roaming the Scottish highlands – that, well, when they die this big cat comes around to try and steal their soul, unless it’s distracted.”

“Jesus, I ain’t ever had a cat that I’ve been able to tell to do ####.”

As she spoke, the duo retreated back into the entrance-hall.

“Me either, that’s why I’ve got a fist full of catnip.”

With consistent generosity, Will began to spread plant matter over the carpet.

“You’re just gonna chuck that everywhere?”

“Cleaning up afterwards isn’t part of the service. Once this is done, we’re going to hang around telling each other riddles – the thing loves ‘em, and it’ll try to answer one if it’s presented. If nothing happens by midnight, we go home while brother Al takes over. Then we’re here in the morning, to let him finish the meet and greet stuff, and the process ends when they bury Rory, tomorrow.”

During their self-guided tour they’d managed to thoroughly dust the well appointed ground-floor, so Coffin turned his attentions to the staircase that lead upwards.

The extra distance from the mourning matriarch’s wailing gave the small cluster of bedrooms a feeling of tranquility that was absent on the lower level.

Will was tossing the last third of his supply about the hardwood when he noticed a woman sitting behind a partially closed door, on a crisply made bed. There was a child nursing at her breast. He gave an embarrassed smile, and began to turn away, but was met with no reaction. His companion, who’d taken the opportunity to open a fresh mini-bottle of Bacardi, also noticed the vacant countenance.

“The dead guy’s wife, I guess,” said Bunny, “I’d have likely gotten that stoned too, if I’d actually given a #### about Tim when I killed him.”

Approaching from yet another chamber, a stooped man with steel gray hair entered the corridor.

“She’s been saddened by recent events – but so have we all. Worry about my boy, not his bint, and I’ll take care for wee Johnny when we’ve got Rory in the ground.”

Saying nothing more, the old man hobbled to the steps and disappeared.

Coffin cast another glance in the widow’s direction, but still met no response.

He sprinkled the last of his herbs in front of her entry, then, shrugging, left.

Their first task complete, the shaman and the drunk took up seats at the rear of the viewing area, and began to pose questions to which neither were allowed to answer.

Bunny found it a very long ten hours.

* * *

Coffin was awake and standing at the kitchen counter when the call came. Closing a leather-covered, and yellow-paged, notebook, noting the caller ID, he finished his milk and answered the phone.

“Yeah? Did you see the kitty? You didn’t fall asleep, did you?”

“No, it’s not that – you need to come right away. Someone needs to stand vigil. I’ll be at the store in ten.” Without waiting for a reply, Alister hung up.

Snatching up the remote, Will increased the television’s volume until Bunny snorted awake and lobbed a couch cushion at him.

“What’s yer problem?” she asked.

“Trouble back at the wake,” he replied, zipping his leather jacket in preparation for meeting the night’s cold.

* * *

Once given a brief explanation, the police that wandered the house largely ignored the tired pair of hired mourners stationed again on their folding seats.

They were at the end of their client’s briefing.

“The guy, who you say took the infant” said Coffin, “was he wearing a cheap gray suit, two sizes too big? Did he smell like Hai Karate?”

“I was a kinda too focused on the shotgun to think about smelling him,” replied Alister, “but, yeah, I guess.”

“How’s your sister-in-law doing?” asked Bunny.

“I can’t be here,” said the grieving twin, “I need to help look for John Robert.”

Dodging past a woman in uniform, he exited the house.

Rubbing at the side of her nose, Bunny broke the ensuing silence.

“Who steals a widow’s kid when the dad’s body isn’t even planted? That’s ####ed up.”

“That moron hustler – but it’s not human. I’ve done some reading, and I’m fairly sure it’s a suckling.”

“More voodoo? Mama was raising a demon baby?”

Coffin cleared his throat.

“Not intentionally. These folks all seem to believe the little one is genuine, so there was probably a real pregnancy. The thing must have murdered the real son pretty early on, and replaced it – maybe even while they were still at the hospital. Hard to tell the difference when they’re so fresh, especially when it’s constantly feeding. I wonder if it had anything to do with Rory’s accident? Pops might have realized he was raising a cuckoo-child.”

For a while, Will chewed at his thumbnail and listened to the chatter of the passing cops.

“What do we do?” Bunny asked, after rattling off five open-ended puzzlers into the empty air.

“Once the idiotic fast-talker is found, I know of a nunnery of sorts, up north, and they can handle junior. Since Alister has buggered off, we need to stay here and ensure Rory makes it through to the other side. I ain’t giving these people their money back, and my strengths are mostly in dealing with the dead – I do, however, know of a guy who specializes in handling the living.”

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

178 – Nurture: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-eight.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Nurture: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp178.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Words with Walter.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself amidst a wasteland.

 

Flash Pulp 178 – Nurture: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

BlackhallThomas wiped his soot-dirtied palm across the hem of his greatcoat, and promised himself time for proper laundry should he ever again encounter the water necessary.

The frontiersman stood on a blackened plain, with a dry mouth and skin cracked from recent heat. He craved the leafy shade that the field of smoking stumps had once represented, but, more over, he longed to return to the journey which would bring him to his Mairi, and away from his current miserable chase – given his thirst, he wasn’t confident he’d live to see its end.

He’d been on the hunt for Silence Babb, and the damnable bairn, for half-a-fortnight, and, while the course was at first relatively simple, the ocean of flame which had risen up amongst the mid-Summer’s timber had, on the fourth evening, and for the full day following, entrapped him in a creek barely wider than his own shoulders.

His escape from the blaze was a near thing.

As he’d readied for his departure from the stream that was his haven, he’d had little idea that it might be his last sight of cool moisture. Almost worse was the fact that, although he could guess the general direction of the traveling-pair, the fire had consumed any marker indicating their actual passage.

Now, as his boots churned up ash and an occasional smouldering ember, he cursed his heart as a fool’s for ever having been sidetracked from the path of his beloved.

The temptation to strip off garments, and leave behind his tools, was strong under the added weight of the noon-sun, but, as he crested yet another cindered hillock, a minuscule buzzing reached his ears.

With a smile, he slapped at the mosquito which alighted upon his cheek.

* * *

Seven days earlier, Thomas had determined that none in Saltflat Township could account for the babe that the woman had carried into the midst of the hardscrabble residents.

Those who’d witnessed her wandering could find no good to say in regards to the lineage of the child, and all were quick to point to the chronic moral degeneracy so often attributed to the family as a whole. Despite their tales of faulty ancestry, however, none cast blame upon the elder Babbs for having turned his wayward offspring out, even if it meant sending his mewling heir with her – especially as the girl refused to divulge the identity of her suitor.

When Blackhall had made inquiries as to how Silence, a farmer’s daughter largely marooned upon her father’s acreage, had managed to secretly bring the pregnancy to term under the eyes of the surrounding prattle-tongues, and her own kin, the usual answer was a change of topic to the impropriety of the infant’s constant posture at her breast.

Most were so concerned with the supposed vulgarity of this public nursing that they gave no notice to the vacant aspect about the new mother’s eyes. If she appeared haggard, it was the opinion of those who did observe her fatigue, that it was true of all recently-minted parents, and doubly so for those who set themselves to raise an innocent without a proper spouse.

Thomas had cursed the priggish nature of the area’s inhabitants as he’d run to retrieve his kit from the horse-shed for which he’d overpaid to shelter in.

The conversation that set him afoot was a short one.

“Sir,” Helen Brooks, Silence’s favoured companion, had said in interruption of his stroll upon a country lane. “I have risked much by making my way to you, so I would beg you hear me out. My brother has spoken of your unnatural gifts, and I ask you to consider the case of the youngest Babbs.”

“Speak on,” was Thomas’ reply.

The girl had collected herself then, slowing her speech so as to prevent the need for a repetition of her plea.

“If she was expectant, I would have known. We were neighbours, and the truest of confidants to each other. She’s barely whispered sweet words to a boy, so I do not see how it would be possible that she’s lain with a man.”

“You said ‘were’? Are you no longer acquainted?”

“That is the crux of why I have sought you out. Gardner – he who recommended you – has just now returned home from a stop at the inn, where, he reports, he witnessed her exodus in a northerly direction. He says that many laid unkind words at her feet, and that she was weeping into her chest as she departed with her charge at her teat. I know better, however, for I have seen them together. Silence’s head was stooped so that she might speak to her bundle, which, by itself, is not so unusual, but it – I have heard it speak back to her. I might say, more accurately, command her, though its mouth was gorging at her bosom.”

As he was familiar with tales of such a torment, Blackhall’s interrogations had been rapid and rough-tongued, but his rudeness made those he’d questioned eager to set him about his route. He’d quickly found the broken grass that marked her wake, but, as he enumerated Silence’s possible symptoms, he was disappointed to find all other inquires answered only with ignorance.

The length of the protracted pursuit had come as a surprise, but, on the fourth day, he’d grown confident that he’d overtake the girl by nightfall. It was then that he’d caught the first whiff of smoke on the wind.

* * *

Crushing the avaricious insect, Thomas felt a warm slick of his own vital fluids spread across his fingertips. His eyes had become keen, and he turned slow circles, hoping to catch sight of whatever puddle the pest originated from. He well knew that no such bloodsucker would be found far from water, and his survey was rewarded by a shimmer below two charred, cross-fallen, pines.

Knocking off his hat, Blackhall ran for the pool – spring or standing water, he cared not.

His headlong rush was brought up short by the withered husk of a corpse, once human, now nothing more than a tightly-drawn graying skin, set roughly over an assemblage of bones. She lay largely in the pool that was his destination, and it took only the briefest investigation to ascertain that it was Silence, as a disordered, three-deep row of puncture marks surrounded her right nipple on all sides.

Waving away the swarm of mosquitoes gathered over their birthing puddle, Thomas lay his hat upon her rigid face, and pledged to return for a proper burial.

Although he’d been delayed by the conflagration, his find gave him confidence that the matter would soon be resolved. Two ruts moved away from the cadaver, and through the ebony dust, illustrating clearly the path of the crawling brute.

It was a hard decision to still drink from the damp sepulcher, but he knew it would be little use if he were to perish of dehydration before he’d made some small vindication of the murder.

Another three hours found him standing over his objective.

“Beast,” he managed, kicking at the tiny form.

In defiance of the imp’s size, Blackhall found his foot rebuked as if by half the heft of a full grown man. The unexpected bulk further encouraged the frontiersman’s fury, however, and in short order Thomas had the fiend pinned beneath his sole, at the neck – as he might a snake.

The skin of camouflage that was the suckling’s greatest strength was rendered ineffective by the flexing rows of reed-like straws that made up the savage hellion’s mouth, and by a clear view of the split eyes that were so often hidden against the tender skin of its victim.

“Shall I be eternally assaulted by such as I have no recourse to end?” asked Thomas, addressing the sky. He faced his captive. “As you’ve none of the allergy to silver which besets so many of your occult brethren, I’ll only put a pause to your wickedness – but, with the honour of dearest love to bind me, I’ll find some way to dispatch you, no matter how long the work takes. To begin, I’ll render you feeble for as many decades as it’ll take you to regenerate your armament.”

With that, he dug into the layer of ash, and retrieved a fist-sized stone. The shattering of the counterfeit child’s hollow teeth took many hours, and the binding, and dual burials, took several more.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Pulp Sensibilities

Movie poster for MadmanOn last night’s FlashCast we spent some time discussing the nature of pulp, and its effect on the real world. It’s easy to think of pop culture as disposable, but we often miss how it can influence our own thinking.

For example, I’m currently reading The Willowbrook Wars, a non-fiction piece regarding the shutdown of a brutal state school for the handicapped, and the fallout that surrounded its closure.

The wars began in 1972 with Geraldo Riveras televised raid on the Willowbrook State School. They continued for three years in a federal courtroom, with civil libertarian lawyers persuading a conservative and conscience-stricken judge to expand the rights of the disabled, and they culminated in a 1975 consent decree, with the state of New York pledging to accomplish the unprecedented assignment in six years. The study takes readers behind the scenes to clarify the role of the judiciary, the fate of the underprivileged, and the potential for social justice.

– Amazon

Which, more specifically, leads me to this point:

Until the middle of the 20th century, people with intellectual disabilities were routinely excluded from public education, or educated away from other typically developing children.

– wikipedia

Given that people would rarely interact with the disabled, (or the mentally ill,) in their formative years, how did people come to know what mental illness was like? Through fiction.

Many stories in the Batman series start, end or take place within Arkham [Asylum]’s walls. Externally, it is uniformly depicted as an imposing gothic castle, often replete with driving rain and forked lightning. Internally, the depiction of Arkham varies; typically it is a cross between the eighteenth century Bedlam depicted in the likes of Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress and the cliché’d environment of The Shawshank Redemption’s prison movie genre.

– kuro5hin

How long were our perceptions of the mentally ill, and the handicapped, reinforced by the slobbering mad-villains of pulp?
Final panel of A Rake's Progress, by William Hogarth
Even later – lower-key – representations can be disturbing.

Interestingly, another EC Comics series, M.D., also touches on mental distress. In M.D. #3 a suicidal man is diagnosed with manic depression, taken to hospital, sedated and given electroshock therapy. Supposedly, this makes him ‘forget’ his depression which is blamed on his argumentative parents.

– wikipedia

You may argue that things only got better from Of Mice and Men through Flowers For Algernon and What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, but I’ll note that I’ve never seen an actually disabled actor play any of those roles – and there’s also Sloth Fratelli, of The Goonies, to be considered.

Sloth Fratelli from The Goonies

Pulp constantly deals in the unbelievable and the little understood; the most unbelievable amongst us are the insane, and, for many years, the least understood were the mentally disabled, so it’s no coincidence that the pair should so often overlap – but it also means that it’s doubly worth questioning what assumptions we come away with in such sharply drawn, black and white universes.

177 – Sgt Smith and The Discovery, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-seven.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Sgt Smith and The Discovery, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp177.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Sgt Smith recounts a tale from his time with the vice squad.

 

Flash Pulp 177 – Sgt Smith and The Discovery, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

My Dearest Dundernoggin’,

Your mention of the Sweets last Sunday – and the hullabaloo surrounding that poor boy’s death – brought on an old memory from the depths of the leaky sieve that my gray matter has become.

Late in the ‘80s, I was working Capital City vice. There was this place at the far end of the industrial patch, a two-floor shanty that had been rezoned commercial and sold cheap. I knew the owners, Cooper and Collins, for a long time – they were nice, but their luck was poor and they were born into the wrong era. The bar was named, The Discovery, after Shackleton’s ship. They were massive history buffs, although I doubt any of the soused transvestites that frequented their place ever took much notice beyond the occasional opportunity to participate in themed costume nights.

Anyhow, they kept a relatively tidy place, and, even if it was in a rough end of town, any naughtiness happened off of the property. Despite its reputation, my memory is of a barroom full of folks just looking for a conversation with those of a like mind, which isn’t so different an idea than the place your Granddad frequented when I was a lad.

Doesn’t mean that the surrounding locals didn’t put up a lot of hassling at the station to have us do something about it. Different era I guess. I wasted many evenings drinking soda, trying to blend in, and keeping an eye out for anyone who might be attempting to pull a trick. I’m not saying it never happened, but I could have listed a half dozen street corners my hours would have been better spent watching.

Thing was, in some cases, the situation worked in favour of the regulars. That July and August, three guys had had their faces butchered, and one had found himself nearly castrated, all while walking home from a night’s worth of drinking. For a few weeks, my presence was actually pretty welcome.

There was a fellow, Daniel – he knew I was a cop, but he always seemed happy to have me at hand. Skittish when you first got to know him, but eager for a conversation once he realized you weren’t going to slug him.

This night, I’m sitting at the rail, underneath a picture of arctic explorers posing on an ice flow with a British flag, and I’m thinking it’s time to slip down the back way and through the alley that patrons looking to be a little more incognito usually took, when Danny starts heading to the washroom. I remember it distinctly, because I thought at first he was stumbling my way for a chat – he wasn’t, however, he was just listing from too many glasses of rosé, and his high heels were throwing him off course.

There was a pause, no longer than a minute’s worth, then he comes back. He’s a lot stiffer, and he’s got his hands in front of him. Frankly, at first I wondered if he’d been shot in the belly.

When he finally made it back to his table, he was coming around from his shock a bit, and every eye on the upper floor was on his slight face.

He held up a freshly severed thumb – not his own.

You could see a nub of bone protruding from the gory end, and it was still dripping.

Now, Aunt Clarice, the bartender, and the only natural woman in the building, was a stodgy broad. I’d seen her extract shattered glass from beneath a clumsy-handed reveller’s blood stained toga, and I’d seen her clench her fists against the occasional confused hick that would wander in to prove how not gay he was by starting a fight. In this case, she just stood there sputtering.

I can’t blame her, there’s something greatly unsettling in seeing a lone thumb. Although wordless, it asks: where is the person who ought to be attached to this digit, and how did they go about misplacing it?

At least a blood-drenched victim tends to babble an explanation.

The party was over immediately. No one had any interest in answering questions during the inevitable police response, and the place emptied in a glittering human explosion. Mid-deluge, I was guessing at the most likely destination for the newly-four-fingered man. The nearest exit to the bathroom was the route I’d considered earlier, so I dropped a few bills on the bar for Clarice, then threw myself into the flow, to be carried out to the cool night air.

Then we all came to a sudden halt.

I had to push my way up to the front, as the group had formed a sort of semi-circle with the open end facing a cinder block wall. Standing on a split trash bag was Timothy Buchanan. I knew the greasy little bugger because he’d spent quite a bit of time with Bobby Sweet, after they’d met in a halfway house.

Anyhow, Buchanan was holding this ridiculously over-sized folding knife – you know, brass with a faux-wood veneer, the kind of thing you buy for twenty bucks at a shady convenience store. It was stupidly huge – you’d expect the A-Team to mount it on the front of their van. He seemed to be getting tired just waving it, but that might have because of his missing ear. Not a Van Gogh half-job either: the whole bloody thing was hanging from where his lobe had once resided. It was held on by a stringy bit of flesh that looked like hot-dog skin.

As I moved to the opening, I saw Mint, another regular, being directed by friends back towards the bar. His cheeks were full of blood, and his thumb was missing.

I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen forty fitter men in one place. If I hadn’t dragged Buchanan off to serve his sentence, he would have been missing a lot more than his quality of hearing – I think they’d have likely found him in a dumpster somewhere on the east side of town.

He was only tried for the single assault, and for a while I felt like maybe he should have gotten a longer sentence, as, when he went in, the attacks stopped. Later on, though, after nesting with a lifer, I heard he decided to settle down pretty permanently on the inside.

Everyone has a path to walk, I guess.

Love you,
Dad

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

We’d also like to thank the following members of the Freesound Project

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

176 – The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-six.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp176.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we turn your attention to a charnel house with an unexpected legacy.

 

Flash Pulp 176 – The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

ChillerAlthough it was getting late in the morning, Lillian Price’s shoes were damp with dew by the time she stepped up from the overgrown front-walk, and onto the porch of 699 Willoughby.

Straightening her attire, she cleared her throat and rolled her shoulders. Finding no buzzer, she tried the antique knocker that hung at the center on the blue-painted door.

The entry swung open at the momentum of her knock.

Biting her lip, Price glanced at the home-owner information she held in the crook of her left arm.

“Mr. Powell?” she asked into the dark gap. The blinds were drawn in the living room beyond, and she could feel a cool draft escaping from the interior.

Beneath the musty stream of the released breeze, she caught a whiff of decomposition.

She stepped inside.

“Hello? Mr. Powell? Quincy?”

Given the lack of reaction, she tried the closest light switch, but received neither illumination, nor a response.

Nearly tripping over a canvas sack brimming with undelivered newspapers, Lillian engaged the LED on her phone, and panned its glow over the area. The space was neat, but unadorned – it reminded her of the house Grandfather Price might have kept, if her grandmother hadn’t done the decorating on both of their behalves. The only piece of furniture that seemed well worn was a leather recliner, which dominated the expanse in front of Quincy’s massive television screen.

Noting that the burgundy carpet was clean, except for a single muddy track apparently formed by the treads of a sneaker, she began following the trail.

The prints ended in the kitchen – she guessed because there had simply been no more trapped dirt to leave behind. As she inspected the array of chrome and digital outputs that Powell had had installed, she was impressed by how much of the old man’s renovation money had gone into the work. It was rare to see such an extensive layout.

Completing her inventory of the now defunct technology, Lillian spotted a pair of medical-grade walking sticks set against the wall in the far corner. The canes’ skewed positions gave them the appearance of abandonment.

Her survey had presented two options: a flight of stairs heading to the upper floor, or a second set, behind a door with a checkered apron hanging on it, descending.

She had little interest in spending any more time than necessary in exploring.

With a sigh, she began to move downward.

Lillian was on the fifth step when, below her, she noted two sets of legs, one wearing khaki slacks, the other in scrubby jeans.

Then the exit slammed shut.

She forced herself to remain calm while ghostly mechanisms engaged themselves.

As the overhead fluorescent bulbs pinged into life, the corpses became clearly visible. At the center of the large, unfinished basement, sitting on a plastic lawn chair, Quincy Powell’s wrinkled face had drooped onto his chest. A Joyce novel had fallen from his right hand, and a white, sealed, envelope lay atop a gray table at his side. To his left was a teenager who’d collapsed, face down, upon the floor. Given his arrangement, it was difficult to make out his age, but she reckoned it at no older than seventeen.

At the smell of sulphur, a single bead of sweat formed at her hairline, rolled down her brow, and disappeared under the band of her collar. She began to cough.

Retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket, she placed the cloth across her nose, and, with a firm internal voice, reminded herself that she was a professional. Despite the self-reassurance, however, the ethereal hiss that filled the air carried her feet quickly past the bodies, past the white washer and dryer combo, past a large selection of Christmas ornaments, and to the maintenance closet, clearly labeled on the tablet still crooked at her elbow.

She knew now that Powell’s overwrite of the home’s automatic housekeeping systems, presumably based on a sloppy bit of programming from some Internet forum, had crippled the functionality of the upper floors, and was also responsible for sealing the cellar, likely against anyone who might accidentally arrive too early.

The house, having faithfully completed its task, but no longer able to detect an occupant, had switched to low-power mode – which Quincy had recoded to turn off the heating system and leave the residence unlocked, so that his body might easily be discovered. Unfortunately for the passing teen, what the dead man hadn’t considered was the computer’s awakening from slumber, once the chamber’s sensors were triggered by renewed movement.

Lillian could only imagine the youth’s panic as he realized his good deed of inquiry had left him within a deathtrap. His oily finger prints were visible on the windows he’d attempted to smash after his retreat had been cut off, and he must have still been searching for something to use as a club when the the perforated gas line had finally dragged him into unconsciousness.

“Dammit,” Price said aloud, “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

With practiced fingers, the Good Homes Incorporated technician disabled the control panel overseeing the makeshift suicide machine, then she returned to the ground level to call in.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

175 – Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-five.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp175.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, PI Mulligan Smith learns that not every legend has a happy ending.

 

Flash Pulp 175 – Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan had the flu, and was feeling less than enthused about the hours he’d spent pacing the cement sea of mega-stores and fast-food islands.

It was on the shabbiest shore that he finally found the thirteen-year-old he was looking for.

The boy had set himself at the entrance of a gas station, with his wheelchair blocking access to a metal shelf selling blue windshield washer fluid. On his lap was a sturdy, but transparent, plastic sack, filled with chocolate bars and topped by a small donation box.

Few people seemed to be paying much attention to the lad, however, as their eyes were largely on the g-stringed picketers across the street.

While a well-toned man, in a bow-tie and shimmering Speedo, spoke to the crowd regarding pay-rates, the white-teddy-wearing protester closest to the street utilized her time by waving a laminated sign.

“Honk if you love lap dances”, it read.

Noting the youth’s distraction, Smith used the opportunity to skip the inevitable charity pitch.

“Sad truth regarding the business, you can generally tell a female stripper’s age by how large she’s been forced to increase her implants. Not her fault, really, but it’s a shame that the investment is usually all they’ve saved up till that point – there’s no real retirement plan for a peeler.”

“Maybe the strike will help?

“Well, Seth – they claim it’s for their tips, but people in the know say the whole thing’s just a PR move by management.” The teen’s eyes widened at the mention of his name, but Mulligan continued before any response could be made. “I’ve come about your brother. Your mom sent me.”

“What’s wrong with Kurt?”

“Nothing new. I’m mostly here concerning the prostituting-via-Facebook thing.”

The sitting figure said nothing.

“If you have his login info, you need to tell me,” said Mulligan.

Seth remained silent.

“If not his password, then anything – regular Johns? Friends? Victims?”

“Kurt can take care of himself,” the boy replied, shrugging.

“Listen – this isn’t a clever cat-and-mouse bit, he’s been missing for three days, and he’s probably in serious trouble. I’m not judging his industry of choice, but the truth is, while his methodology has allowed him to stay freelance and avoid some face-slapping, many of his clientele remain in-the-closet, can suffer a lot of self-loathing, and may be unstable.”

“Do you know who Kurt is?” said Seth, his cheeks aflame,”He’s the son of Bobby Sweet. Dad once spent seven days straight in a whorehouse, getting free service because he’d convinced them he was a cop. He only got busted because an actual five-o walked in for his monthly appointment. You don’t even wanna hear what Grandad, or even Great-Grandad, got up to.Kurt’s a Sweet he’ll be fine.”

Smith cleared his throat.

“That may be how they tell it down on fourth, but I’ve heard your Pops was busted – that time – by an ornery mute after he had an undercover cop badger game turned against him. Hell, I’ve probably seen your old man more than you have. He used to come round to my grade school pretty regularly when I was a kid, giving a talk as part of his parole conditions – back before he started going in for longer hauls.”

By the end of Mulligan’s delivery, the boy’s eyes were raging slits.

“Why’d she send you?” he asked.

“Your mom isn’t trying to control you, she sent me because she’s had the good sense to get away from the bloody Sweets and their family legend. You do understand what a legend is, right? A tale to explain something otherwise unexplainable – in this case due to a reluctance to speak the truth on the part of the person who understands the reality of the situation.”

Seth’s mouth was a thin white line.

“You want your brother’s death to be just another part of the legend?” asked Smith.

“#### you,” was the immediate reply, but, after a pause, it was followed by, “dollar-sign, then bigm0ney, all one word, with the ‘o’ being a zero. His user name’s his email address.”

“Call her. She worries,” said the PI, even as he was moving towards his Tercel, “- and get the hell out of that chair and stop scamming people’s change, otherwise I know an ornery mute who’s got nothing better to do with his days than follow you around.”

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.